


Mission Complete

by OberonsEarring



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 16:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16857214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OberonsEarring/pseuds/OberonsEarring
Summary: A mission ends and leaves Scott and Logan in Tibet for Christmas.





	Mission Complete

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for Christmas stories, if you can't tell by the plethora of Christmas stories I've written lately, and considering this is my favorite pairing, of course they're all centered around Scogan. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year if I forget to tell y'all in a later writing.

They'd bonded. Over piss-warm beer and too many graves. A Christmas mission, both too distant for the warmth and jingles of the mansion. Neither had the stomach for all of the decorations, the carols, the gift-giving, so when Cyke told him that they were going on a mission, Wolverine jumped at the chance without complaint.

Rumors had been flying for some weeks about a mutant in Tibet that could seize upon a person's fears and turn them into a reality. Snakes, goblins, a cheating husband. People were journeying for miles to witness the mutant for themselves, and sooner or later, the whole thing was going to set off some cataclysmic event when the wrong person had their fears of an apocalypse or zombies or some seven-mouthed creature with antennas for eyes put out in the open for the world to see.

And while both men were prepared, and thankful to get out of the mansion for the next round of carols by the piano, the whole thing turned out to be a wash. The kid wasn't nearly as powerful as everyone thought he was, and didn't actually produce fears, but rather had a habit of collecting snakes and rats and other creepy things. The whole spousal thing was just an excuse for an affair, for the most part, as the kid wasn't even a mutant, or so said Cyke once they got in range of his supposed powers.

The child just stared at them with some blank expression on their face and showed them his spider collection that he kept under the floor boards of his parents' shack. He smiled and clapped and gleed like a fucking two year old on cotton candy, his eyes lit up with delight as the spiders crawled across the floor and up Wolverine's shoe. “Bite,” the kid said, “Bite.” But of course, the spiders didn't. 

Rolling their eyes, they set out for the nearest bar – some ramshackle joint that lacked electricity. They had scant few choices in their drinks – either the unrefrigerated beer or some type of fermented yak milk that the locals seemed to favor. Either way, they weren't in for much of a treat.

Settling at the small table in the corner – so that Cyke could watch the comings and goings of the patrons – they soaked their lips in the drudge of beer, drinking half of their warm pints down before bothering to speak a word. “Too bad we didn't bring a tent,” Summers said, his eyes darting out the single paned window and into the drift of snow outside. “Looks to be good camping weather.”

“Didn't realize you were a woodsman, Cyke.”

“Scott. We're off mission.”

A smile snipped at Logan's cheek, and dark brow lifted above gray eyes. He held his pint in the air for a cheers, before gulping down the remainder of his booze. He gets another pint for the two of them, tells the bar tender to keep them coming, and shoves a roll of small bills on the table. “Figure we'll be here for a while,” he said, noting the heaviness of the snow. Scott gave him a questioning look. “Either that or we're stuck at the mansion for the Christmas party, and to be honest, I'd rather avoid it.”

Scott agreed with a slow, solemn nod. Even when Jean was alive, he wasn't one for the holidays, preferring to spend most of his time in the office catching up on his stacks of paperwork and grading. It was during this time that he would come up with schedule rotations and class assignments, revamping the whole system to make the school run more efficiently and the teams under his control act more coherently. 

But this year, for some reason, he just wanted out. Rumor had it that it would've been his tenth anniversary this year, and that he'd already bought the ring for his dead wife two years ago. Rumor had it, that they'd watched him go pout by her grave in the middle of a snow storm. And rumor had it, that he was back in the throes of grief, though he would never admit to it. “Do you like ice fishing?”

Another round of beers, and Scott is blushing warm, while Logan is still trying to get some modicum of alcohol into his system. “Yeah, when I've got whiskey.”

“We could ask the bartender.” And before Logan could protest, that's exactly what Scott did. He showed the man some nice, crispy bills, and he ran out the back of the bar. “Guess he's got a personal stash,” he called to Logan, a beautifully wide smile across his face. Logan returned it, suddenly feeling a little warm. It had been too long since the man had smiled in earnest. 

Three bottles of the good stuff in hand, they ventured back out to the Blackbird to gather their materials. Scott was always was good at keeping the jet stocked in case of emergencies. Fishing line and extra covers, hunting knives and flint. As many times as the plane had crashed, he was, in fact, surprised that Scott didn't keep a tent in here. “I've got a tarp,” he said, holding up a plastic package. “And a sleeping bag.”

“Just one?” 

Scott shrugged. They'd gotten destroyed on the X-men's last mission, and he'd forgotten to replace them. Something about a bear or a coyote or a fire. Whatever the story was, Logan wasn't paying attention as all he could think about was sharing the same sleeping quarters with Summers.

“You know I don't get cold like you do,” Logan said, a little concerned about the sudden jolt of electric in his groin. 

“Up to you. I don't mind sharing.”

It was a three mile trek back out to the river, and Cyke was as cold as ice by the time they got there. He didn't complain, didn't say a word about the chattering teeth or frozen feet, and instead wrapped himself up tight in his coat and dropped his line down the hole that Logan cut in the ice. This would be their dinner. This and whiskey. And he wasn't ashamed to say that he planned to get thoroughly drunk.

Logan watched him sip at the bottle with some worry. The leader X-men rarely partook, and when he did, he definitely didn't aim to get drunk. “Everything okay?” he asked, and got a nod in reply. Logan knew he wasn't. Hell, he never was. All the shit the two of them had been through in their lives, it was hard to say who had had it worse. But, this wasn't a pity party, this was an ice fishing party, so Logan let the thoughts go and dropped his own line down the hole.

The fishing was easy, and the two men fell into a gentle rhythm of give and take, the barb masking a fondness between the two of them. They talked of missions, of the school, but nothing personal, as was their wont for the long hours they sat on the riverside with their lines in the water. That is, until Scott took one drink too many and felt a little blushed with whiskey. “I used to love Christmas.” For the first time in a year, he mentioned Jean out loud and how he had loved to watch her eyes glitter at the presents that he got her. “It meant something then,” he said, meaning that he no longer felt the joy of it.

Logan tugged at his line, feeling the weight of fish, watching the quiet settle back upon Summers' face. “Don't think I ever really cared for it, Slim,” he said, the sadness to his voice unmistakable. “We should start dinner,” Logan said, carefully noting the blueish tint to his friend's lips. “Get ourselves warmed up.”

While Scott cleaned and butchered the fish, Logan gathered the firewood. It was a peaceful place they'd chosen by the stream – nothing but wind and snow and tall pine for miles. It was the kind of place that Logan dreamed of, out of the way, where no one would come knocking. “Be a nice place for a cabin,” he said just as the fire got going. 

Scott skewered the fish onto long sticks, set them around the fire. “Couldn't grow a garden though.” 

“Didn't know you liked to garden.”

“Never tried, actually. But, it seems like something that I'd like.” Indeed, putting out the perfect garden was something that would appeal to him – all logic and science and methods to test. “Maybe we should institute one at the school.”

“Kids'd dig it.”

Summers laughed, as did Logan. Curled up in the blanket, Scott was still a little too cold for Logan's liking. “Come here,” he said, patting the log beside him. Cyke questioned the outstretched arm. “Can't have you freezing to death before dinner.” The hesitation struck a jolt of discomfort into his stomach, made him cringe and regret. With a sigh he dropped his arm back to his lap and shrugged. “Your choice, bub,” and he then reminded the man that they were sharing a sleeping bag anyway.

Following the logic, and knowing that he was getting too cold for himself, Scott finally joined the warmer mutant, nestling beside him, and draping the blanket over both their shoulders. It was strange, how comfortable it all seemed, as if time had finally healed their old wounds. He tipped the bottle of whiskey back to his lips and smiled. “This is nice,” he said, looking out over the visor-pinked landscape. There was no rush here, no emergency that called his attention. For the first time in years, he felt like he could truly relax. 

He melted against Logan's side, taking in the deep, warm scent. It was odd how comfortable he was next to the older mutant's side. How natural it all seemed. He'd never thought of Logan like that – in a way that was as intimate as what he once shared with his wife – but with the alcohol in his system, he could see it, and in fact thought about it in the back of his mind. They would make quite a pair, they would – polar opposites, but workable. He wondered what it would be like to kiss the man, to run his fingers through that unruly hair, to make him moan and groan and pant. But, he put those thoughts aside all too quickly, feeling the blood below his belt. He was sure that Logan could smell the sudden arousal, but thankfully, he said nothing. If anything, it just drew the man closer.

They shared the fish later that evening, each remarking in turn what else they could with it. A little salt, or some herbs tucked into the stomach. “A stew,” Logan said, if they could find potatoes. Each could imagine the little cabin that they would share, and how easy their lives would become. Logan would do the hunting, Scott the cooking and gardening if he could figure it out. They'd raise some fruit trees and berry bushes, maybe some chickens and goats like the locals. They wouldn't need much, long ago having become unenamored with the lusciousness of the mansion and all of the riches that came with it, though Scott did like his bed, and Logan his motorcycles. 

“We could go days without seeing another person,” Cyke sighed, another sip. He warmed his hands at the fire, staring out at the vastness. “That would be something else, wouldn't it?”

He knew it was taking a risk, reaching out and grabbing those outstretched hands. He knew that Cyke could react any number of ways, including pressing the button to his visor and blasting him all the way back to New York, but he did it anyway. He took those long, cold fingers into his and rubbed at them with his much warmer hands. And, maybe it was the alcohol – still a slurry in Summers' frozen blood – or maybe it was something else, but Scott didn't put up a fight. He let the older man massage the warmth back into his fingers, his face a mix of gentle appreciation and curiosity. 

It had been two years now since Jean died, since he'd allowed himself to be touched in such and intimate manner. Sure, there was Emma, but the guilt he felt over his actions had prevented him from going further than her psychic manipulations. He was touch-starved. That's all there was too it, and with the whiskey, it made him more amenable to it. Made him feel things that he hadn't felt in years.

Red gaze to gray eyes, the silence was thick between them. Just the touch of hands to hands, and the fear that words would break the spell. Logan listens to the other man's breath, notices how off kilter is, how staggered. And like a slow motion train wreck, he leans in and presses his lips to Scott's.

It's a chaste kiss, a testing one. Lips to lips with nothing urgent in between. He pulls back and studies that face that's normally so blank – the uplifted brow and barely parted lips, the way that a warm blush tinges at his cheeks. So, he dips forward again, his hand cupping faintly heated cheek, and pulls Summers in for a deeper, longer kiss.

It goes on forever, the touch between the two. It becomes frantic, a tangle of tongues and limbs and need. Fingers in hair, Logan pulls back on Scott's head, opening up that delicious long neck and the sweet pulse spots that send him into moans. The blanket falls to the snow-covered ground, lit warm by fire and the friction between skin. 

Zippers come undone, tops first, exposing pale skin to the sub-zero temperatures, but neither man bristles with the cold. Scott pulls him closer, opens his legs wide so that Logan can lay on top of him, and kiss his neck and nip at his ear, drive him crazy with thumb stroking soft circles over the dusky buds on his chest. As Logan takes his attentions lower, Scott arches his back, hissing with his years-long celibacy finally coming to an end. “Logan,” he pants, his thoughts catching up to him. 

He wants this and doesn't want it. He's unsure. It could change everything between them. The warm camaraderie, the ease of their friendship. It could make it haggard, fraught, tense. But the need to feel, the need to be close to someone again is overwhelming, especially as Logan kisses at his stomach, his calloused fingers gripping against hips as he teases at abs with gentle nips and suction. 

This is not what he expected, for either of them. Never in a thousand years would he have imagined that Logan would taken such care unzipping his pant and gently folding the material down. Scott tried to help, tried to kick the Kevlar material off onto the ground, but the older mutant made him stay put with a hefty hand to chest. He smiled, watched with pleasure as Scott fought those primal urges, near-frantic with his need for release. 

It was teasing, then, the slow kisses up towards his neck, then back down over solid abs. It was quite a thing to see the leader-man so desperate, to see him respond with such fervency to his kisses. “We'll get there, Scott,” he promised while removing the man's briefs and then his own. 

The heat between them was enough to stave off the cold. Though goosebumps shivered up and down Summers' arms, Logan was quite sure it was from the rush of adrenaline and blood to certain regions rather than the winter breeze that blew over top of them. He felt himself hardening -painfully so. It had been so long now, longer for Scott, but the wait was worth it, and the time was right.

For years, he'd wondered about Scott, what it would be like to taste him, to explore him, and as he pops his mouth around that erection, and hears the alto tones escape unbiding from slack jaw and wonder, he knows that this was meant to be. Jogging his head in and out, tasting the slight saltiness of precum, he pulls back, only for a second, just to look at the man as he begs for more. He leans back in, running hands over muscular chest, careening lips up neck until their lips meet once again in a tangle of tongues and desire. Scott pulsates against his thighs, thrusting himself against legs, urging Logan to push forward, to enter him, to make him feel full and sated.

The rush of skin between them was exhilarating, the friction between their hips as Logan rocked back and forth. He searched his pocket for a lubricated condom, quickly wrapping himself in, and then went to work preparing Scott with his own precum. He was tight and hot and all the things that Logan needed in these moments. “Relax, Slim,” he cooed, drawing soothing circles on the man's stomach as he inserted a third finger and scissored them. “Just relax.”

Relaxing was difficult for the X-men leader, but the fullness, the stretch. These were things he'd ached for since coming back from his Apocalyptic possession. To be taken, to be loved. Closing his eyes behind visor, he took a deep breath and willed himself to relax around Logan's fingers, melted into the gentle in and out and the hook against his prostrate. “Damn that feels good,” he moaned, opening his eyes just long enough to see Logan smile. 

Logan grabbed those long legs and pulled them up over his shoulders. “You just stay still, Slim. Let me do the work.” 

He pierced the man with just the tip, waited for him to brush past the pain by pulling him into a deep kiss that only heightened the jolts of electric down his spine. Pushing further, he collapsed his mouth upon that neck, sucking and nipping at pulse with his sharpened teeth. He could bring blood now, mark the man forever with those tiny scars that only he would see, and the thought of it made him dizzy with anticipation. Moving lower, to where Cyke's shoulders tensed with the further entrance, he bit down hard until he could taste the iron of blood, and smiled again when Scott's back arched into movement. “Logan,” he moaned again.

The rhythm was slow at first, as Scott refused to let him go. Gripping onto Logan's back, he kept the older mutant pressed against him, his own mouth doing it's best to keep up its gentle suction of neck and the steady stream of moans that creaked against the silence of the mountains. 

They were good like this, the two of them. Good and gold. A beautiful, unexpected thing, and Scott startled the moment Logan pulled away, but that soon gave way to ecstasy. Tightening his grip on the man's hips, he began to thrust more excitedly, glancing across that deep-inside spot, watching as Scott threw his head back and opened his mouth wide. Arching his back once again, gripping tight to melting snow and sleeping bag, he called out Logan's name again and again, needing this more than he needed anything.

Slowly, Logan could feel it build inside of him, the rush of blood and nerves to his groin, how wonderful it felt, electric and hot. “You feel so good damn good, Scott,” he panted, pushing his thrusts even faster now, ready to spill, ready to fall in beside his leader and snuggle him into warmth.

The man was hard as a rock, his skin pink from cold and heat, and his head dizzy with the build. Covered in a thin sheet of sweat, he rocked himself back against Logan's erection, deepening the thrust and barely holding on. He clenched down hard on Logan's member, and when he did, he felt the man shudder, exploding deep inside of him. The warmth of it, the burst, made him release just moments later, spilling his seed across bare chest and bruised hips. 

Logan cleaned the blanket the best he could, helped a chilled Scott back into this clothes. “You okay?” he asked, and the other man smiled and nodded. He was tired now – they both were – and cold. They spent the night wrapped inside of each others arms, their kisses slow and meaningful, neither knowing what would happen when they returned. 

On Christmas day, they toasted each other with whiskey and fish, snuggled in against the fire and let the silence settle over them. They talked again of the cabin, but not the night before. There was no need to talk of it as they sat here, still hunched together in the warmth of fire. Eventually, in the evening, they both decided it was time to head back, that the festivities would be over, and at least they could catch the leftovers from the Christmas feast and head back to their rooms.

“My room, you mean,” Logan said, finishing off the second bottle. “We're heading back to my room.” There was still time for Christmas presents, after all, or at least unwrapping them. “And cold beer,” he winked, more than excited when Scott nodded yes. 

“Guess Christmas wasn't so bad this year,” Scott said as they boarded the Blackbird and buckled in.

“No, turned out okay. Merry Christmas, Scott.”

“You too, bub.” He replied with a wink as the engines came to a roar. Yes, Christmas did turn out to be a little merry this year, and for that, he was thankful.


End file.
